


Chasing After Wind

by oldselfrejects



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8397454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldselfrejects/pseuds/oldselfrejects
Summary: Rory Gilmore finds herself in a life she hadn't planned. While visiting Stars Hollow for a week with her boyfriend, she tries to recover the way it felt to be young and sure; to bridge the gap between her rosy past and uncertain future.Rated M just to be safe, for some sexuality and swearing primarily in future chapters.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray back into fanfic after... a long time. ;)
> 
> In anticipation of the new episodes coming out on Netflix, I wrote out a few short paragraphs of what I thought Rory's life might be like post-college, and somehow it turned into this multi-chaptered story... long story short, I'm not quite finished, but I figured I should get my predictions out now before the series plants this thing firmly in AU territory!
> 
> Full disclosure: Rory/Jess is endgame here. I'm not sorry. ;)
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy enough to stick around!

The sun rose on Rory Gilmore's twenty-seventh birthday, and she woke pleasantly, naturally to the sensation of soft sunlight on her cheek.

Her blue eyes opened to the sight she had grown accustomed to over the past two years -- her very own apartment, paid for monthly with her very own money, that she earned from her very own job.

The apartment had three rooms in total: a tiny bathroom, a small bedroom, and a main room with an attached kitchenette. It was decorated exactly as she liked it, stuffed to the brim with full bookshelves, while the walls -- or, what little of the bricks that were still visible -- were punctuated with framed posters of her favorite classic works of art. A small plastic plant, caked in dust, sat beneath her west-facing bedroom window. It was probably a good thing she'd stopped trying with real plants after the second failed attempt to keep one alive.

She sighed deeply and stretched her arms out, happy to wake up without the assistance of an alarm clock for the first time in what felt like a decade; Monday through Friday she worked in the admissions office of Marymount University, from seven in the morning until five in the evening. Following that, she would have a quick dinner, then settle in front of her computer to write for her political blog, Gilmore House Rules. Weekend mornings and afternoons were reserved exclusively for pitching online magazines and working on any articles she'd managed to grab through freelancing.

Today, though, she had given herself off as a birthday gift to herself. Her blog had just passed four-hundred subscribers -- not exactly taking the political journalism world by storm, but a huge accomplishment in itself -- and she had just submitted an article to Salon (a huge get that still didn't feel quite real), so she deserved something of a break.

A small succession of vibrations sounded from across the room, demanding her attention. Reluctant to move from the warmth of her floral sheets, Rory squirmed further beneath her comforter, far enough to cover her nose and pretend that the outside world didn't exist today. But the vibrations persisted, and she rued the late-night half-decision -- based partially on laziness, but primarily on the online article she'd just read about cell phones giving people brain cancer from invisible waves -- to plug in her phone at her desk instead of her bedside end table.

"Curse my self-preserving ways," muttered Rory to no one, reluctantly swinging one leg over the side of the bed. After much deliberation, the other leg followed.

She crossed the room and checked her phone, and her spirits brightened considerably when she saw her mother's name in her notifications. She opened her text messages and read:

> My stunning, genius daughter -- HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Read your blog last night & had a nightmare about Anthony Weiner sooo THANKS FOR THAT. Will give details when I see you tomorrow. Can't wait. Travel safe <3

Rory smiled and typed a quick reply. She couldn't wait, either. She'd been counting down the days since the plans were made four months ago.

Since she was already up, and her body was trained to crave coffee within minutes of waking, she headed for the kitchen, rubbing some sleep dust from her eyes and stifling a yawn.

The coffee pot hummed as it did the Lord's work, and in the meantime twenty-seven-year-old Lorelai Leigh Gilmore raided her quarter-full refrigerator for the least healthy thing inside, self-preservation be damned. She found some leftover fudge from the bag she'd picked up on a whim at the adorable new shop across the street from her bus stop, and stuffed a chunk of it joyously into her face.

 _It's my birthday and I'm an adult, dammit,_ she justified to herself.

She stuffed the rest of the fudge back into the fridge at the sound of a knock on the door. She opened it to the smiling face of Anderson Belieu, and in a second her arms were filled with fresh flowers wrapped with a pastel yellow bow.

"Happy birthday, Rory," Anders said, apparently breathless to be near her.

"Wow, these are beautiful," Rory replied in thanks, secretly doubting she had anything to store the flowers in, and already feeling guilty for making them die. "You shouldn't have."

"I wanted to," he said with a soft peck on her cheek.

Anderson, known to intimates as Anders, was Rory's first serious boyfriend since she broke things off with Logan Huntzberger years ago. He had a kind face and sweet demeanor, but beneath that bubbled a wicked sense of humor and secret dark streak within -- which, if she was honest, was Rory's favorite thing about him. The thing was that it only came out at the most rare and unexpected moments, while his default setting wasn't particularly exciting.

Which was fine, she reminded herself, because life wasn't a romantic comedy, and people weren't fictional characters, and a real-life dependable person was ten-thousand times better than a fictional casanova who kept his partners on their toes.

She'd had this inner debate several times over the past two years, and had yet to do anything decisive about it.

"Are we still on for tonight?" asked Anders, taking a seat at her tiny breakfast table.

"Del Olmo, seven-thirty," she affirmed, her mouth already watering at the thought of all the tapas she would order, washed down with....

"Are you thinking about that sangria?" asked Anders knowingly. "You have Sangria Daydream face."

Rory couldn't help but chuckle. When they'd first started dating she'd been shocked, almost perturbed, by her boyfriend's tendency towards clairvoyance. Now she counted herself lucky that she had someone who cared enough to remember what she liked, and notice the shifts in her moods. It was nice.

Conversation continued around the tapas, what kinds they would order for themselves and which they would share, and what was that one fried thing with, like, sauce? Or was that a different place they'd gone?

"Well, tonight is a special night," Anders said, his eyes shining with excitement, "so get anything and everything you want, no questions asked."

Something in the way he was looking at her made Rory squirm. It was different, heavy with meaning.

A thought occurred to her, unbidden and scary -- he had gotten a raise at work, and had hinted at a large purchase in the near future -- he definitely wasn't planning -- was he?

She pushed it from her mind. If he had his mind on "that" -- she couldn't even think the word for fear of making it real -- she would have known. It would be obvious.

Wouldn't it?

Again, she pushed the thought from her mind, forcefully, and slammed the door of her brain shut.

"Rory?" his voice brought her attention back to the kitchen in a snap. She took a gulp of her coffee and didn't think about the M word again.

"Yes," she said too firmly.

"Where are you this morning?" he asked her, still smiling. She wondered if he could ever be mad or annoyed with her.

"Still waking up," she lied.

"Well, you should nap today, since you have it off. We'll probably be out late tonight, and then we have to get up tomorrow at the crack of dawn."

Rory perked up, as she did anytime she remembered the trip they had planned.

A whole week in Stars Hollow -- it was long overdue. She wiped at a tear forming in her eye. She was getting soft in her old age.

Anders finished his coffee, and with another kiss to Rory's forehead, left her apartment to run some sort of non-specific errand that gave Rory heart palpitations.

***

On her first full day off in eons, with an entire week of freedom at her fingertips, Rory found herself with buckets of time at her disposal, to do whatever she liked. Naturally, the first thing she did was refill the coffee pot, grab a book, and mummify herself in her softest blanket.

She took a final sip from her coffee cup and set it aside, replacing it with _The Help_ , the novel she'd picked up at the library at the behest of her coworker Maureen. The woman had been raving about it for two years, and when a film adaptation came out that summer she was unstoppable in her passion. So once Rory had finished _This Side of Paradise_ for the thirty-fourth time, she dropped by the library one rainy afternoon last week and picked up Stockett's debut.

It wasn't her usual fare -- contemporary best-seller with a boost from Oprah -- but she was enjoying it more than she thought she would. It may not be _The Fountainhead_ , but it still provoked deep thoughts, and produced a lump in her throat more often than she cared to admit.

She could never admit it, though. Her reputation for only reading classics would come collapsing down in fire and ruin.

The book was also an excellent distraction from the uncertainty that plagued her about Anders's intentions later in the evening (which she swore she wouldn't think about for the rest of the day). The prose went down easy, but with a harsh chill as she imagined the events happening in reality, as she knew they had -- it kept her in check, that people have real problems, and suffer through ordeals much worse than a possible unwanted proposal.

Her phone buzzed during a particularly heart-wrenching passage, and she jumped a foot in the air at the sound.

Logan Huntzberger's name flashed on her phone's screen. Intrigued enough to take the call rather than ignore it -- a temptation she usually indulged -- she hit answer and held the phone to her ear.

"How's it going, Ace?" he greeted her casually, as though his attention was split between her and something infinitely important.

She barely had the word "fine" escape her, and Logan continued along without her.

"Listen, I'm sorry to rush this call, but I have awesome news. Jinx is pregnant!"

Virginia Warburton -- also known as Ginny, but mostly known as Jinx -- was Logan's wife, a high society busybody type who seemed to adore Rory for reasons she could only guess.

"Congratulations!" Rory chirped, but Logan was still going.

"Sorry this is such late notice, but my mom is throwing her a baby shower on Friday at their house in Hartford. I know you're not down there anymore, but do you think you could make it? Jinx would love to have you there."

"Well..." Oh, God. She would be in the area, so she should go. She didn't hate Ginny (Rory refused to call her Jinx when she wasn't physically present), and she liked that she and Logan had been able to keep a friendship over the years. She'd like to continue that. So she should probably go.

But the prospect of seeing Shira Huntzberger again nauseated her.

"Honor will be there to keep you away from my mother," Logan said, reading her mind.

She did like Honor. And she was available to go to the shower. And she couldn't think of another excuse on the spot.

"I'll be there," she said. "I should probably bring a gift, right? What's the nursery theme? Is she registered anywhere yet?"

"Hell if I know. Sorry, Ace, I gotta make another call. See you Friday!"

With a click, he was gone, and Rory had plans for Friday. Maybe she could come down with a deadly virus on Thursday night.

***

Anders arrived in a yellow taxi at seven sharp, dressed in slacks, a nice shirt, and a blue tie that paired nicely with his eyes. Rory, herself all in blue by coincidence, had only built up the terror inside by a moderate amount, and made another internal vow that she wouldn't think another second about the possible proposal.

She gulped at the word, then embarked on another litany of self-deprecating remarks in her mind.

The taxi ride over was fraught with nerves, at least from Rory's perspective. Any tiny movement from Anders caused a tremor down her spine. If he noticed, though, he didn't show it, to Rory's relief.

Del Olmo was a relatively new Spanish restaurant in the heart of Arlington, and it was packed as usual, Saturdays being their busiest night. Despite their reservation Rory and Anders still had to wait twenty minutes for their table to become available, and when at last they were called, they shuffled between walls of people and were seated between two large, loud parties of drunk coeds.

 _Not exactly conducive to marriage talk,_ thought Rory. A small thrill of guilty relief lifted her spirits.

The first round of sangria appeared at the table, and any anxiety from the day slowly melted away as Rory downed the glass. Her anxiety level decreased further as the minutes ticked by without any mention of marriage, even in a general sense -- only endless bites of gambas, raxos, albondigas filled her senses, punctuated by Anders's witticisms and fun anecdotes about the million adventures he'd experienced before they met. He never seemed to run out.

***

A little sippy and romantic from the birthday beverages -- and from Rory's perspective, maybe a little light from the relief of not being engaged -- Rory and Anders fell into bed the moment they returned to her apartment.

His lips were soft against her neck, his hands firm as he explored her figure, and she let it happen -- she wasn't particularly aggressive when it came to this -- at least not anymore. Maybe in her younger years she'd been a bit more hungry, a bit more eager to please -- but Anders didn't make it a performance or a competition, so she didn't feel the need to.

That was a defining characteristic of Anders, now that she considered it. He was the most accomodating boyfriend she'd ever had -- not even Dean had been as understanding, because with Dean there was always that hint that his love came with certain conditions on her personality and character. She didn't have to be anyone else but herself with Anders.

His arm wound its way around her middle, and he pulled her in, then in a single fluid motion brought her on top of him.

It wasn't the worst thing she could think of, becoming Mrs. Belieu (or would she keep her last name, like Paris? Or hyphenate -- Mrs. Gilmore-Belieu?). It was just that the thought of being asked The Question again struck her heart with panic.

 _That's right_ , she thought, the realization becoming clearer. _I've been asked before. And it didn't end well._

Not only had the non-engagement ended her first adult relationship, but shortly thereafter a fictional story about her had serpentined its way through the ranks of the Daughters of the American Revolution. It originated from the mind of Shira Huntzberger, and reached its fiery end once Emily Gilmore caught whiff of it.

And it had been completely unnecessary fodder for an even deeper wedge between Lorelai and Emily, and it all came to a head when Rory was forced to choose.

It blew over eventually, but no one had escaped unscathed. Except maybe Shira Huntzberger.

"Rory," she heard Anders' voice from beneath her. Then more insistently: "Rory."

"Huh?" She realized she'd been staring intently at the wall -- not exactly the way a girlfriend fully engaged in intercourse with her boyfriend would be behaving in a moment like this. She lowered her gaze and focused on her boyfriend below. "What is it?"

"Are you okay?" he asked, with a hint of a laugh.

"Yes, fine," she said, then quickly backtracked. "Really great."

"You've been acting weird all day."

"Maybe I'm preoccupied with my mortality, you know, getting older," she joked, and the subject was effectively dropped.

She tried not to think anymore as they finished up, with mild success, and soon enough Anders had showered quickly and come back to bed, lightly snoring in minutes.

She really did like him. That was the trouble.

Rory rolled over to the side and looked at the clock, groaning with dread. They would be rising in five hours, on the road in six.

She sighed. What was wrong with her? She had just about everything she could want. So she wasn't a journalist -- oh well. She'd made her peace with that years ago. She had a great job that paid her well and gave her a nice environment to enjoy each day, helping young Rory Gilmores get their start in life. It was fulfilling and fun most of the time. It gave her a regular schedule, with weekends and holidays off (which she still managed to fill with work), and a nice apartment in a growing neighborhood. She had plenty of time to spend with a boyfriend who adored her.

She had no reason to be dissatisfied with her life. And yet the feeling plagued her, often at the most unusual times with no prompting, and she didn't know how to stop it.

Rory carefully unbound herself from the covers and crossed the room on tiptoe to the bathroom. The floor was cold on her bare feet, but the air in the room itself didn't chill her shirtless chest too much. In fact, it gave a bit of relief from the heat that their nightly activities had created.

Her thoughts caught back up with her as she hovered over the sink, splashing water on her face. Her life might not be an exotic adventure every day, but how exhausting must that be? She had a life of leisure, and there was nothing wrong with being comfortable. And it wasn't like she wasn't making a difference in the world, either -- she had her blog, which was pretty hard-hitting if she did say so herself, plus that Salon article. There was no rush, or pressure to be great, other than what she piled on herself.

 _Maybe I should see a therapist_ , she thought fleetingly as she headed back to bed.

Then, as though she could hear her several states over, Lorelai called. Rory reached for the phone to silence it quickly, tiptoed to the other room, and answered softly. "You do realize it's two in the morning, don't you?"

"'Mother dear, who I love so much, how ever are you?' That's the greeting I wanted," Lorelai's voice came through loudly. Rory turned the volume down on her end vigorously. "How's my girl? How was your birthday?"

"It was good, thanks for asking." Rory suddenly felt self-conscious, sitting there in the dark talking to her mother on the phone without any clothes on. "What demon possessed you to call me this late?"

"I don't know, whatever we summoned tonight during the seance. Think his name is Colin."

"You suck, Colin."

"I'm sorry, I'm just really excited to see you tomorrow. I wanted to hear your voice on your birthday instead of just text."

"Hate to break it to you, but my birthday's been over for two hours."

"We just got in from a long day at the Inn. Taylor's stupid Fall Fest thing. So forgive me for not calling at a reasonable hour, for Taylor is not what one would call a reasonable man."

"Forgiven," Rory smiled into the phone.

"I'm excited to meet the famous Anderson." Rory could visualize her mother's eyebrows lifting suggestively as she said this.

"He's excited to meet you, too. And Luke and everyone, see the town -- he says we have to do dinner at Al's Pancake World when we get there. Think Al takes reservations?"

"I think he'll want to skip Al's this time. Bratwurst."

"Bratwurst?"

"Yep. That's it. All bratwurst. Plain, sweaty bratwurst."

"Sweaty?!" Rory suppressed a gag.

"You don't wanna know."

"I'll take your word for it."

"So..." Lorelai's tone changed in that way that tried to sound completely casual. "Anything interesting happen tonight at dinner?"

Rory crinkled her brow in thought, and then felt her stomach drop as she did the math. "No. Why?"

"No reason. Just asking."

"There's a reason. You have suspicious voice right now."

"Promise you, kid, there's no reason!" Lorelai protested in her tell-tale way that she was lying, hard. "It's a simple question, no motive."

Rory was too tired to get into it now. She would pry it out of her in time. "Okay. I believe you," she relented.

Lorelai chuckled. "It's good to hear your voice. We miss you down here."

Rory's throat seemed to dry up and close. _Don't cry_ , she urged herself.

She missed them down there, too. She missed her mom, of course -- but, to be honest, she missed her life. Her bedroom, Kim's Antiques, the gazebo, breakfast at Luke's, the cat memorabilia store that had closed down last time she'd been there, the weird residents that peopled the town and walked everywhere and always seemed to get into your business somehow.

She missed Lane. They hadn't spoken in years. Last time they'd visited each other, it dawned on Rory that they had absolutely nothing in common anymore -- the memory gave her a sick feeling.

She missed being the golden child. She missed everyone caring too much about her personal life. She missed the drama of being young and in love, with everything ahead of her.

Rory got quiet, and thought about this.

Lorelai noticed. "Hey. You okay over there?"

"Yes," Rory answered quickly. "Just thinking about something."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, no, it's nothing." She needed to change the subject before her mother came up with any more spot-on insights into her emotional state. "I'm so excited to see everyone tomorrow!"

The subject effectively dropped, Lorelai crowed into the phone: "The sun machine is coming down, and we're gonna have a party! Uh-huh..."

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the work comes from the song Human by Brooke Fraser, which partially inspired much of the later chapters.
> 
> The chapter title comes from Memory of a Free Festival by David Bowie, which also provides the lyrics to Lorelai's little song at the end. :)


End file.
